"seater" poems
I should have skeletons in my closet,
but they've yet been stripped of their flesh,
and I've let them loose in this small town
for a game of hide 'n' seek.
She returned a set of my pajamas, unwashed,
her intoxicating scent lingering on hooks in my closet
where her aroma constructs an illusion.
I bury my face in them,
feeling my damp cheeks pressed into her *******
reaching down below where my hand grasps her posterior
where it takes a firm shape in the loose garments.
I dig into the scent until I go crazy;
I tell myself I'll wash them next week.
I should have skeletons in my closet,
but she's taken it on the road,
in a small town parading it down empty streets
where I can see it clearly,
her oblong sunglasses darkly obfuscating
what I perceive to be her pejorative gaze,
over a narrow ivory face,
sandy blonde hair flowing in the wind.
(I still feel, yes, that smooth pale face cupped within my trembling hands, that sandy hair tangled around my fingers reaching up the back of her neck, pressing her face more towards mine)
I look for the shallow dent
in her ubiquitous red minute two-door seater
on the passenger side, where she was gently T-boned
by a student driver practicing their three-point turn,
and the smiley-face lemon-scented air freshener
dangling from her rear-view mirror,
having lost its freshness years ago.
(I still see, yes, us in that hardware store parking lot,
in the closed evening hour,
sitting cramped in the passenger seat,
her knees on either side of me,
our shirts off and skin warm and sweaty, nervous,
trembling, trembling, lips aching and souls yearning--
where were we headed to again?)
I look for it so intensely,
I forgot my goal was to never see it again.
Young love looking for little things in a small town.
For years I play this game of hide 'n' seek,
and part of me should realize
that at some point she got up from her hiding spot
and moved on with her life.
(and no, I won't look at her engagement photos,
nor the photos of her newborn child,
nor the Happy Anniversaries and the congratulatory sentiments--
I can see them without social media's derision)
I still scan the streets
like a vulture over roadkill,
yet I thought I was the one
engraved into the grainy streets
where she commutes over my remains.
I should have skeletons in my closet,
but I let them walk out of my life
so I can chase them all over town.
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 11:02 PM UTC
Mile after mile
the endless motorway
spews out its metal contortions
hum your V6 engine
rock with impatience
under branded lime-green
sun strip protectors
brimming with breeders
of brooding black BMWs
7-seater convertible prowess
gleaming off-roaders
go faster striped boy-racers
silver slick steamroller Range Rovers
revving executive supremacy
nestled annoyingly
behind a Grand Jeep Cherokee
all stop in motion
by a pedestrian button
for a little old lady
with shopping,
And me.
So many people
in so many cars
gas guzzling
un-muzzled bulldogs
drooling to be first
the excesses of acceleration
the freedom to roam
to gloat or to garner
well you can all stay in line
with the press of a button
and a finger like mine
Moses in green spandex
parts the Metal Sea
for a little old lady
with shopping,
And me.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 11:15 AM UTC
I took the train home today
although I was surrounded by the busy society
going about their day, I was alone
I had no one to call a company-
well, other than my phone
and also the 2 different people
who sat next to me through my journey.
I took the train home today
usually you would come with me
(I sat by myself)
we would sit on the 3-seater seat;
(I leaned with a sigh at the edge of the 4-seater)
2 for us and 1 for our bags
(just one for me and my bags on my lap)
you next to me, and our shoulders touching
(just my shoulder with a stranger and a glass pane)
we would talk about our week during college
(I mentally talked to myself about what happened)
we would flirt with humour and touch
(I stared into the distance imagining you here)
our stop-stations next to each other, yours first to leave
(I dropped off at a different station today)
you would get off and wave me goodbye until I'm out of sight
(I stared past your station with a lonely heart)
I would quickly get off on mine and text you I've arrived
(I walked out and stared at the train as it leaves)
I took the train home today
as I sat alone in my own little corner, I wondered
is it sad that our love is only true in the train we take?
If so, I will keep getting on our train
if it means you will come back
and we will relive our imagination
just us in our own little world.
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 4:05 AM UTC
Closed doors, open windows,
Long distance calls between two singles.
Dinner for one on a six seater table,
another romantic comedy on cable.
Karaoke set untouched,
mirror on the wall frequently watched.
Wine glasses in the sink,
monotonous thoughts with plentiful time to think.
Just Jump
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 10:19 PM UTC
(Children chasing, people screaming)
Good American fun
At a baseball game (pee-wee)
I sat on the top row of a twelve-seater
Bleacher, clustered between strangers
Declaring war on second graders.
To the right, a blank score board
Screamed the depression of a
Poor town's last winter, while
In contrast
The smell of concession stand
Popcorn enticed the eager middle
Schoolers with loose quarters.
All people were eager to lose their
Own frustrations in a children's game;
They would traumatize the left-hand hitters.
I looked left, to the other end of the field,
Opposite the obvious winners.
Beside the cluster of flowers where
I got stung by the yellow jacket,
Behind the fence where my brother
Kissed his first crush,
You stood there.
Your ***** blonde hair was ruffled
Wild. Your eyes, hungry.
All stared, frozen.
You stumbled forward.
(Children chasing, people screaming)
No more fun.
Nothing ruins a mid-Atlantic spring day like a zombie infestation.
Apr 27, 2012
Apr 27, 2012 at 12:48 PM UTC
even tho the fire was never really lit truly human,
their tousled hair and sad eyed lowland blues owning the fullness of natural emptiness ain’t no crime, like a double negative,
to which no one no cares no objects when spoken
those bad boysenberries radiate a flirty tarty aure, venus fly traps
for those needy to do a saving, the sweets of the the three poems
memorized for wooing, oft another’s undoing, the top button
releasing a burning bush of chest heat
being misleading the reddening cheeks
was a bad boy once of ill repute, daddies and mommies warning
their innocents of my word of mouth reputation, making me 100%
irresistible, so all forgot when climbing into my two-seater to go
moon gazing swooning, learning the moves practiced in nightime
bad boys still need saving sooner but usually later, cause
moon gazing is still a thrill for his new audience of grand children,
proof that some of them boys are hiding well enough stuff
beneath their veneer
be the miner of a thousand years, teach these child boys well,
crack them open, let the empty escape and light rays spill in
**** if some of those bad boys grow up
now, just to be bad poets laughing
at the foolishness of the early days of
discontented shortsightedness incontinence of a soul fumbling
Mar 16, 2019
Mar 16, 2019 at 12:55 PM UTC
I only love you when I'm sober,
so I've been high for, about, I'd say
2.27 weeks?? wild, I know. what
can I say? I just
hate being alone with
the mere thought of you,
cloying and ******** ecstasy
in my endorphins. Newport on my lips
and nicotine in my system; emotions
encased in agar, Petri dish replicants.
sugar skulls crushed beneath timbs and
honey beneath my cuticles and
white wine in the freezer frosting up.
chocolate ganache sealing my tongue
like a sarcophagus and I'm daydreaming
about halcyon days gone by
screaming along to the radio in
your sunsoaked two-seater.
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 6:29 PM UTC
It’s been three years.
As I drag myself from the wreckage of yet another crash
Lungs full of smoke and skin seared with burns
I can’t help but think of that day
Three years ago
When we stopped playing hide-and-seek
Each of us circling the same gorgeous little two-seater
Each of us refusing to believe we were not alone in the hangar—
When we finally climbed into the cockpit
Admitted that we wanted to fly this thing
And started preparing for takeoff.
It hummed to life like it had been waiting for us
To put our hands to the controls
Like it was not a machine to be flown
But a connection and extension of our very minds
How it leapt down the runway and soared into the sky!
How glorious the flight through clear blue skies!
How terrible the storm that hit.
Enveloped by black clouds
Tossed to and fro by the wind
We wrestled with the elements
And then my controls locked up.
A moment of panic—
“This thing can’t fly without two pilots!”
A desperate grab for the handle by my feet
One last look at my copilot
Then a sharp tug, a violent flinging into darkness.
I don’t know how you piloted out of that storm
How you got that thing out of the sky
But when I tracked you to the landing site
(After months frozen to my ejection seat
Numb and unable to move)
I could see it was in bad shape
Beyond repair? I didn’t think so
But I arrived just in time to see you walk away
Your helmet, left in the dust by a bent and twisted wing
The last reminder of you.
They say you’ve taken wing again
A new copilot at the controls
(I catch glimpses of a tiny speck high overhead sometimes)
And after three years I can naught but wish you well
But, burned and ****** from my last disaster
I cannot help but sit here on the ground
And dream of the sky.
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 12:24 AM UTC
It's our tongues tingling
in a thick sea of Vlad
It's impromptu road trips
without a destination
It's all of our legs wrapped
around the same gray sheets
It's eight of us in a four seater
looking at each other through blood shot eyes
It's ****** breakfast food that makes our ribs
ache worse than laughing at our misfortune
It's twenty seven reruns of
ghost adventures at five in the morning
It's my hair in the palms of their hands
as my head hangs over the toilet
It's all of their voices talking at once
just to greet the tears on their way out
It's every phone call
that has gently eased me to sleep,
it's every makeshift sing along
that has kept me sane,
it's every tired morning
after every dark night
we spent curing each other,
It's every beautiful
friend we found in this ugly town
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 11:58 PM UTC
There was a still darkness
seeping in through the car windows,
and we turned up the music
and we smoked six cigarettes
and we talked louder than we had to
and we laughed at things that weren't funny
and we drove passed your house,
eight or nine times
before we stepped out into it
We did all we could to keep it outside
but it was inside of us all along
so all the noise
was just noise
And all the movement
was just movement
And we knew that
as soon as we were alone
in our beds at home,
we would have to face it
And we were better at
hiding
than we were at
confrontation
But there was an eerie,
sharp pain in
the backs of our calves,
through all the pretending,
that served as a reminder
that we couldn't talk forever
and we couldn't smoke forever
and we couldn't
drive to the ends of the earth
Not in your beat up two seater
But we just wanted
heat and closeness and music
We just wanted something
other than the darkness
to hold us
We could never hold ourselves,
We knew that
We weren't the kinds of people
who held themselves
But we were sick
of feeling like we were dreaming,
when we were wide awake
We were sick of feeling
like we were seeing the world
through a scratched,
and dusty lens
There was something growing in our bones
that we didn't know how to describe
It was a dull aching
that didn't come from the outside
And the thing that would eventually
drive us out of our minds
was that we never
really could find
a safe place to hide
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 6:50 PM UTC
Towering buildings, 2-seater cars, Fancy things
A day in the city, a day in the real jungle
Uneasiness' drawn by my face
Where's my game-face on?
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 2:19 AM UTC
the struggle was never real
i put it on myself
been thinking about some stuff I wish I never did
if there's a pill to make some people forget about how I used to be I'd go broke buying them
I remember every feeling and its a love hate thing
burgundy carpets smell like my ashed get aways
fabreeze helped a little
running on albuterol but still the fastest
my dosage is high but you're breathing harder
my mind has been scattered all day I need someone to tell me something about how they feel about me
don't know what matters and I dont know if it should matter
my sd card is running out of space, I need some space
been ducking the wind lately
im convinced im fairly happy but im not a fair type of person
my way beats the highway so **** a double seater
a coupe is nice but I've damaged my lungs too much to damage the earth
time isn't so much of a problem anymore so I ride my bike slowly, no need for the speed shifts
Im shirtless only when I'm alone at home, what does that tell you?
I wanna try a different genre but people wont **** with me, tears dry anyway
change is good
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 5:40 PM UTC
The man I'll one day meet
won't be handsome, at least not to you
if he were an apple on a shelf,
he'd be the last one you'd choose,
bruised on the outside, yes
but that makes the inside sweeter
the one no one wanted
the middle of a 5 seater
The man I'll one day meet
I can see him when I sleep
sometimes will get coffee
and he'll ask me...
about me,
like he cares, like he's there
like even if I haven't met him yet
we're not wasting time
The man I'll one day meet
will make it all worth
all the heartbreak, all the anger
all the sadness, all the misplaced joy
The man I'll one day meet
is somewhere, right now,
thinking about me.
And I can't wait to tell him I'm doing the same
Apr 18, 2019
Apr 18, 2019 at 1:50 AM UTC
Dalya was sitting
with her brother
beside me
in the 9 seater
mini bus
the Yank girl
was at the front
with the driver/guide
and some other prat
who was a teacher
we'd passed into Germany
and were travelling along
to the next base camp
I was reading
Solzhenitsyn’s Gulag book
what's that about?
Dalya asked
Russian labour camps
between 1918 and 1958
I said
heavy
she said
haven't you
anything lighter?
no
I said
I only brought this
to fill in the time
between camps
looks boring
she said
the death of millions
can never be boring
I said
some of my relations
died in the **** camps
she said
her brother said
Auschwitz Uncle and Auntie
died in and our grandparents
so not boring then
I said
Dalya shrugged
her shoulders
guess not
she looked away
I read on for a while
I thought of Dalya
the evening before
at the first base camp
after putting up the tents
she said
that Yank *****
did nothing
to put our tent up
stood there yakking
to the driver/guide
she in her leathers
and tight pants
and I have to
share with her
and it's all about
what she's doing
and how the guys
are all over her
and she with the posh
sleeping bag
and Dalya went on
over drinks
at the base camp bar
you can always
share with me
I said
why would I?
she said
why wouldn't you?
I said
I’ve only just met you
the other day
she said
what do you
take me for?
a pretty girl
out for a good time
in a foreign land
I said
I can't anyway
she said
she's in my tent
and my brother
shares with you
she was right of course
but the thought
was there
even if
the opportunity wasn't
she glared
at the Yank girl's head
in front
I read about
the NKVD
or whatever
they were called
and sensed Dalya's body
next to mine
her thigh touching
against me
I closed the book
and looked out
at the passing view
at fields
and trees
and the sky
of washed out blue.
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 4:04 PM UTC
My dad and his friend driving out to the pasture to sit in the pickup truck and talk about what? How the cows are doing, the upcoming hunting season, growing quail, fishing, the state of the country.
I don't know what these men talked about but they spent hours together.
While they were out talking Eunice and Marie sat smoking in the living room, discussing stuff. I could sit and listen to them for hours, but don't remember what they talked about. Maybe Marie would get out one of her poems or show my Mama some of her ceramics or paintings.
We girls would dance together the bop to the latest 50's music or we would ride our horses through the pastures and at night we would play Scarin' with their brother-a hide and seek game in the dark.
We spent every weekend together, eating greens, fried cornbread and chicken. I always thought I was Marie's favorite because she was always so kind to me. She was a kind of Earth Mother, quite different from my own Mama. Sometimes Sonny, the boy, would get in trouble because we girls would tell on him for throwing corncobs at us. Then Marie would go after him with a skillet, a switch or a paddle, whatever was handy.
Lamar had been in WWII and had been too close to a grenade. He developed terrible skin cancers which left horrid scars on his face. When I was 15, he died and Marie started working in the Catholic School so the three kids could still attend.
Here we were the Baptists (us) and the Catholics (them) never realizing that our friendship in rural Mississippi was a bit unusual. Mama would lend her Bible to Marie because the Catholic church did not allow the people to read and interpret for themselves at that time.
When we were really young, the family lived in an old unpainted two-story house with Lamar's Dad-Cap'n-a strict old grumpy German who we tried to stay away from. We would come up from Louisiana when I was four and spend the night for the nine months we lived in Louisiana.
Saturday night baths were in a tub-four girls first, then Sonny last-he was a boy and the dirtiest. No running water and a two-seater outhouse. Those were the days...
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 9:11 AM UTC
The curves on this cobalt two-seater
are so **** beguiling. Fuck!
The arcs and contours swerve
through my tangled imagination.
Heh...I am a hopeless romantic
parked in a speedster, dreaming of driving.
I laugh at myself because...how like me
to pick a car that reminds me of you.
I mean, we have yet to experience the pleasure
of meeting each other, but I have seen you before--
My God, I have seen you before--
My trembling hand at the small of your back...
The hypnotic aria of our intimate silence…
The way your laughter heals my pain...
I am alone, but I am driven to find you,
to meet you, to break free of my familiar
Nostalgia made me bitter, turned my love
into a fleeting spirit that burns the palette
Space. She needed, “Space…”
When did my embrace become a cage?
Space. She needed, “Space…”
When did bawling in pain become my normal?
I am alone, but I am driven to find you,
to meet you, to break free of this familiar
I thought love was a destination
that could not be reached.
An elusive location that I longed for,
but was too afraid to take the driver’s seat.
I was a hopeless passenger, happy
to be along for someone else’s ride
I have steadied my breath, wiped my eyes
in order to see you clearly.
Whoever you are, wherever you are,
please know that I am driven to find you.
Soon, we’ll hop into this two-seater
and neither of us will be alone.
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 5:04 PM UTC
Your stare an aphrodisiac; a small heart attack, systematically stimulating, straining my self control.
Your hair provokes my amorous glare, tearing down the walls of insecurity and worry.
Your eyes, even behind the lies, a sweet surprise as luminous as any sunrise;
save your good byes, no need to cut ties.
Your thighs catalyze my emotion quicker than any wave in the ocean.
Your flaws, minuscule in demeanor, as beautiful as a souped up two seater.
You are a movie and I'm just sitting in the theater.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 8:43 PM UTC
If you're an agricultural enthusiast,
Or gifted tower dwelling urbanite,
I know a priest who’ll bless your cockerel, favorite cow,
pig, sheep (with a predilection for lambs), tractor and
two-seater outhouse,
(I once saw a priest bless Farmer Paul’s load of manure).
He’ll lift a hand over
dog, cat, gerbil, cockatoo,
Foster children, adoptees, naturals and the unnatural.
They will bless people in love;
they will bless their love;
But not the union born from their love.
All love, he will say,
Is Divine.
God does not bless sin, said Papa.
Tsk, tsk... it's only a blessing, for Christ's sake.
Mar 21, 2021
Mar 21, 2021 at 3:54 PM UTC
She walked through life, alone.
Content.
Happy with smelling
the concrete, fresh after the rain.
With watching
the sunset from her bedroom window.
With picking
flowers from a garden, stuffing it in her breast pocket.
With cooking alone, enjoying a meal for one on her two seater couch, with a glass of wine.
Falling asleep with Tolstoy and Oscar Wilde late at night.
She was happy, content,
she always felt like something might be missing but it never gave her reason to fear, to put her life on pause.
Then
He came along and showed her what it was like to live beside someone,
to share.
He taught her how to walk in the rain,
he taught her how to breathe,
how to feel the sun on her skin,
how to enjoy the feeling left in her fingertips.
He taught her how to be the flower and not just steal its glory,
how to be someone,
others stole glory from.
He taught her how to care, how to love.
He shared her two seater and her wine.
She learned to cook for two and not just one.
At night her poetry lay untouched at her bedside table.
His voice, his warmth - her remedy.
Suddenly, she felt the hole start to fill.
She loved it most when he made her laugh and when he smiled.
Her favourite was when he used his surname in the place of her own.
When he would talk of their future,
their kids,
their home.
She felt safe and strangely at home wherever he was.
She was happy.
Then
One day, he became different.
Stopped talking of their future,
their home,
their life.
He stopped sharing her two seater,
stopped holding her at night.
Without warning or notice - she was alone.
She forgot how to breathe and how to feel the sun,
how to be a flower,
how to fall asleep at night,
the hole she barely felt before became bigger and bigger,
and that was all she could feel,
the emptiness,
the pain,
the coldness that consumed her.
She forgot how to laugh.
She found her own future to be a blurred sight.
She couldn't remember how to love, how to care, how to feel.
She lost sight of everything.
She couldn't find her way back to where she was.
Everything felt out of place, out of context.
She never wanted to love again.
She feared she never would.
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 5:55 PM UTC
The winter sky is dark, there is no moon;
The taxi’s lights reflects off tin can houses;
Taxi bump, a dog not a speed **** driver will stop until noon;
Rival taxi speeds past with a bang by the side with the man and his spouse;
Her blood bitterly decorates the 18-seater, Lesha from Khayelitsha.
Jul 20, 2021
Jul 20, 2021 at 3:15 PM UTC
Still waging in the wonder
Of how I ended here
From my tender beginnings
To a path that's never clear
With a dog named Bruno
And a cat called Mars
Chasing after each others tails
In and out between foreign cars
A shadow at my feet
That follows me around
Sneaking up on me
Silence its favorite sound
And show tunes from the 50's
Playing over in my head
From My Fair Lady, The King And I
To the Music Man
With a sticker on my window
That shows baby on board
And me being single
I have to wonder what it's for
I always arrive for Fridays
On late Saturday night
All by myself
On a two seater bike
I've got a spitting image
Of who I used to be
Now that I look at myself
I hardly recognize me
I go around in circles
From the left to right
Always walking backwards
Trying to slow down time
In this desert life of mine
I'm my own mirage
Where what I hope to find
I also try to dodge
Most of my days are spent
Trying to make sense
And if you care to count the change
Could you tell me what the cents is
Nov 23, 2016
Nov 23, 2016 at 10:20 AM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
Separate,
The inner hate,
Leaving scraps on the dinner plate of
A life promise to yesterdays,
come at your throat and disgrace your
name,
But who am I to be a burden,
**** man I am the burden,
A bird then yet to not soar when our kind
wins,
But still stuck in an endless loop of sin,
Where the crisis actors get awards
nowadays for mocking an human's end,
You outta be ashamed but you aren't,
The world is messed up,
But I'm smart,
I love to make beautiful words out of a
circumstance in some lines that
shatter hearts,
But in a good way,
But what do you say?
Will the ignorance play a part in this today?
is it too late ? Can you ever be saved?
Became what you hate the most but
Still you pray? We all do.
/
It doesn't have to end like you think it
does,
Plotting on the enemy might be a must,
Looking at your own burial kicking dust,
Trying not to fall in love with a succubus,
Be a man , its hard enough to be on my
own,
Anxiety takes over my temple and exits
my throne,
I can not even trust anyone at home,
Why won't the devil just leave us all
alone?
things will get better.
things will get better.
things will get better.
things will get better.
I was on my own, needed no more help.
Where were you when I needed all that
help?
No family support behind me.
When I was in trouble , did you believe
me?
With your inner peace , you could truly be
free with a bundle of dreams and two
seater, two seater,
All of my friends are imaginary people
in a land of truth seekers , truth seeker.
With your inner peace , you could truly be
free with a bundle of dreams and two
seater, two seater,
All of my friends are imaginary people
in a land of truth seekers , truth seeker.
Apr 10, 2018
Apr 10, 2018 at 9:48 AM UTC
I watch
as Yehudit
walks towards me,
the sway of her hips,
her hair held back
with grips,
her blue eyes lowered,
her hands
in the pockets
of her dark green coat.
It's late November,
chill winds,
greying sky;
we meet on the edge
of the woods.
Got held up,
she says,
Mum wanted me
to help fold
the washing.
She knows you're here
meeting me?
Yes, of course,
although didn't
say where;
she assumes
it's at your house
with your mother
keeping an eye.
She looks towards
the wood.
May have been
a better idea,
than out here,
she says.
We can go
to my place
if you like,
my mother
won't mind.
Then we won't
be alone.
Yehudit looks at me.
We can always sit
in the front lounge,
I suggest,
no one goes
in there much.
She looks
at the woods.
Ok, then,
your house it is.
We make our way
towards the house,
through the back gate,
in through
the back door.
My mother's at the stove,
preparing dinner,
steam rising
from the pots and pans.
Ok, if we go
through to
the front lounge?
I ask her.
Hello, Yehudit;
sure you can,
she says,
watching as we walk
through the middle room
into the front lounge
and close the door.
We sit in
the two seater settee.
Her hand finds mine.
We're next to each other.
No wind, no rain,
just us, alone;
outside
the pitter patter
of rain,
and the wind's moan.
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 4:33 AM UTC